


To free a bird

by Shivanessa



Series: Bird [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Face Slapping, Human Trafficking, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Rope Bondage, Sexual Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shivanessa/pseuds/Shivanessa
Summary: Tony Stark, mob boss, has to deal with a former employee: Quentin Beck wants to see him dead but due to a trick agrees to a meeting. There Tony meets his boy toy Peter, who shows more than just hints at abuse. Getting rid of Quentin suddenly becomes more than a necessity and turns into a pleasure. But what to do with the frightened boy in his hands now?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Series: Bird [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669291
Comments: 78
Kudos: 323





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muse_of_Gods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muse_of_Gods/gifts).



> New topic I always wanted to try.  
> Tony is a mob boss and has a tough image but he feels compassion, so don't expect the usual only-hardcore-guy l... Peter on the other hand knows how to survive, but will he open up to him?
> 
> I dedicate this to the lovely Muse_of_Gods who managed to wake my Starker-feeling again <3 
> 
> I plan this to be a short story with short chapters around 1000 words each. 7 chapters are planned, let's see where it goes. 
> 
> Comments are highly appreciated ofc, but please don't correct my spelling or give unprompted "constructive critisism". Thank you and please enjoy :)

It was getting late, close to midnight. 

The estate outside New York was quiet. Settled in a small park, hidden from view it was the perfect location for a wealthy man to draw back from the bustling city and its… dangers.

The luxurious living room was only dimly lit, most of the light coming from a huge fireplace to the right. 

The two men who occupied the couches regarded each other like tigers who watched the others hunting grounds. 

Tony swirled the golden liquid in his glass. His gaze was cool. Quentin Beck reclined in his seat, a smile playing around his lips that held not warmth either. 

"The  _ great _ Tony Stark. I must admit. I haven't seen that coming." His hand played with the brown locks of a boy who knelt by his feet. The boy, who wore nothing else than tiny black briefs, held his gaze directed to Beck's knee. He had delivered the drinks with his eyes down, before he settled on the floor by Beck's feet. 

All of this was such an obvious display of power that it was just pathetic. 

"Who would have guessed that the day would come where you visit an former employee as an equal. Guess not even you saw that coming." Beck continued. 

Tony inclined his head. 

"Contrary to popular belief, I know exactly what I’m doing."

Beck commented that mysterious answer with an raised eyebrow. His hand stilled on the boy's head. 

"Well, shall we come to business then?" he emptied his glass in one go and his eyes bore into Tony's. 

"Rogers' not here yet." a Tony gave back in an impassive voice. 

Beck snarled. The hate for his former boss and the associate was obvious. They had not parted on good terms and the small scar on Beck's chin, hidden under his beard, was a testimony to that. 

If Beck knew how little Tony really got against him he would have killed him by now. Maybe would try it later anyway. Right now however, he could not let the opportunity of their meeting pass to show off his new status and wealth. How far he got alone after he cut ties with Tony's mob. 

Tony's eyes fell on the boy who knelt by his feet as a reminder that Beck now was in a position where he could do what he wanted, even chain and display an barely legal toy. A few parts around the boys ribs and shoulders looked sore, like fading bruises and his submissive posture filled in the rest of the picture. Beck always had been manipulating and violent. One of the reasons Tony had to get rid of him, despite his knowledge and skills.

The boy appeared well tamed, leaning into the touch in his head a little. 

A wolfish grin started to spread on Beck's face. 

"You like him? I knew you would. Always had a favour for the young and sweet, eh?" 

Tony knew that his face revealed nothing of his feelings for Beck or his little show. He shrugged. Beck's smile vanished like a stone dropping into water. He looked down on the boy. 

"He is clumsy but a nice view. How about we enjoy some entertainment while we wait for your negotiator?"

Before Tony could shrug again Beck gave the boy a hard shove that made him sway on his knees. "Go on, slut. Show us what I keep you for!" 

The boy got up on wobbly legs. The long kneeling must have numbed his muscles, but he showed no signs of pain and stumbled into position. Beck used his phone to play some music on a nearby speaker and sensual rhythms started to flow. The boy, obviously used to dance like this, moved his hips in a way Tony under different circumstances would have appreciated. 

He was too thin, Tony could count his rips when he stretched his arms and the hip bones pointed outwards. Still, he was graceful and Tony felt something stirr in his lower regions. Indeed, Beck knew his type. Unfortunately. 

The boy closed his eyes and let his hands wander down his body, caressing himself invitingly, spreading his legs and arching his back to bring his ass into a prominent position. Tony fought to keep his gaze neutral and his face impassive. 

He knew that Beck watched him during the dance. This was not about a little distraction until Steve arrived with the documents. This was about power and coaxing out a reaction of him. The  _ Iron Man _ was known for his lack of emotion, Beck had experienced this first hand more than once when he had worked for Tony's mob. 

The boy came closer, lost in his dance. He made a side step to do a little swirl. He didn't notice that suddenly Beck's foot was in the way. Stumbling he tried to regain his balance but a shove against his ankle sealed his fate. 

The boy fell with a yelp. He crashed to the ground, his head smashing onto the low wooden coffee table. Curling up on the carpet a small whine escaped him. 

"Stupid shit! Useless clumsy bitch!" Beck hissed and kicked the poor sod until he managed to crawl back to his side. Fortunately it did not look like he had not broken his nose or jaw on the table. Still he trembled with his whole body and hunched down to make himself as small as possible. 

Tony's fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. 

Beck looked up, a smile spreading over his face. He clearly enjoyed the display of his own power. 

"I apologize. He's just too dumb. Only good to fuck."

Tony nodded and said nothing. They boy hunched even more, suppressing a sob. Behind his curls Tony could see the swell on his cheekbone growing. 

He directed his gaze to Beck again, who had seen Tony's eyes straying to the boy again. Beck licked his lips. Tony regarded him coolly. 

"As entertaining as it was. I prefer to wait without distractions."

Beck laughed at that. "Well then. We wait." He turned to the boy again. "Get me a new drink." This order too was delivered with a small kick against the boy's leg. When he got up Beck glared at him. "Spill one drop…" He didn't have to voice the rest of the threat, the other hurried to do as he was told. 

The sounds of glass on glass came from the cabinet by the side of the room, but Tony held Beck's gaze. His own glass was still full. 

Finally. The watch on Tony's wrist vibrated. Just a tiny sound, unheard by the other man. Tony didn't let it show and brought his own glass to his lips as if to toast to Beck. 

The boy came back, serving the drink on a silver plate. Tony watched like in slow motion how the boy bowed low, so that Beck could grab the glass with no effort. He counted in his head.  _ Three, four, five…  _

A sound outside the door startled Beck. Like a bag of flour falling against the frame. He looked up. Tony was already on his feet, his gun pointing at Beck. The younger man gripped his own weapon. 

Tony shot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the changed taggs. To stay safe see end notes for warnings (spoiler).

"How is it babe? Can you hold on a bit more?" 

Peter tried to focus on Quentin, his murmuring voice, the closeness of his body. He shifted a bit in his ropes, his muscles aching. Still he willed his eyes to convey the message.  _ 'Yes. I can.' _

Quentin nodded and caressed his cheek, a proud smile on his face. This unspoken praise was enough to lit a light in Peter, adding to the growing high he experienced. 

Quentin carded his fingers through Peter's hair. He didn't seem to mind that Peter drooled heavily from the ball gag in his mouth. The boy's arms were strapped together behind his back, way too tightly to be comfortable. His knees ached because his legs were bend back too, connected to the ring above his wrists that held his whole body weight. He was hanging from the ceiling, bound in intricate rope patterns, helpless, his head lolling around when Quentin did not grip his hair. 

Slowly his body felt as if it was dissolving. Peter's mind floated. The pain from the strained position and the ongoing teasing on his cock, balls, and nipples merged into a sensation of floating in warmth. He blinked slowly, moaning behind his gag when his left nipple got squeezed and pulled on again.

Then Quentin stopped. His hand went to his slacks, rubbing himself through his pants. Peter tried to watch it, to pay attention, but the heaviness in his head made it difficult. He moaned quietly. 

Quentin pulled his cock out and started to stroke himself in front of Peter's face. He was almost hard, but Peter hardly recognized. Too much was he caught in this strange and beguiling feeling that engulfed him like a warm bath.  _ 'Please… ' _ he thought without even knowing what he was begging for. 

Quentin's noises changed. They became frustrated, angry even. 

A slap landed across Peter's face. It pulled him out of his dream like state. Another and another landed on his cheeks, made his head jerk to the side painfully. As if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his heated body Peter was thrown back in the present. The ache in his body rushed back in full force, truly painful now. The sting on his cheeks added to that. He whined, begged for mercy but Quentin snarled at him and gripped his hair, shaking him harshly. His cock was back in his pants and slaps rained down on Peter's helpless form. 

"Useless!"

-

It had been different in the beginning. Quentin was fascinated by Peter. Almost obsessed with him. Peter never truly understood why. He was a gawky teenager with nothing to speak for him. No money, no education, not even the best of looks. But something on him had sparked interest in Quentin when he came to collect his money. 

-

"Who are you?" 

"Peter, sir. I-... May is my aunt. Please… don't hurt her. I'll do anything-..." 

Quentin held up his hand, silencing him with it immediately. His eyes went up and down the boy in the too wide sweater and the ripped jeans. 

"Anything, huh?" he asked and his fingertip caressed over Peter's lower lip.

When Peter answered it was nothing more than a whisper, but it caressed Quentin's hand with a promise. "Yes."

Quentin's eyes became smaller. 

"Well, let's see. I'm willing to let all of what she owes me fall. But  _ you _ are coming with me."

And Peter just nodded. He did not ask what for or how long. He had promised everything. And that seemed to sit very right with Quentin Beck.

-

"It's amazing how you react to pain." Quentin purred behind Peter's back. Peter bit his lip. This was embarrassing. But in fact he had never shied away from pain. Had found it rather… interesting. Of course, there was pain that was just awful. When he had broken his arm as a child for example. Agony, followed by all that jazz with a cast and such. Not desirable. But small amounts of pain had always been… comfortable. Interesting. 

Quentin slapped Peter's backside again, leaving red marks on the pale flesh. Peter gasped, but his cock was still stiff and drooling precum. He closed his eyes. He could hear the smile in Quentin's voice and it made him happy. 

"I wonder how much you can take…" 

-

Peter hardly recognized when he was brought down to the ground. Roughly Quentin undid the ropes and Peters limbs fell to the floor, ungraceful and weak. Tears streamed over his face but in his disoriented state he could not grasp why he was even crying. 

_ 'I haven't been good enough again.' _

That made sense. It explained why he was left alone on the floor, the ropes draped over his body, dropped without care. Like him. Quentin had not even bothered to take the gag out. 

Peter laid on the floor and sobbed. It felt like falling, falling even deeper and deeper into an abyss, a bottomless pit where nothing else was left than that hollow feeling. 

_ 'You are not good enough. Worthless. Useless.' _

-

At some point Quentin must have come back because Peter was pulled up and hoisted onto a couple of pillows. The gag stayed where it was. Maybe it wasn't even Quentin. Maybe he had one of his thugs doing it, to avoid dirtying his hands with his useless toy. 

Peter wished for nothing else than forgiveness. For Quentin's touch, his reassurance that he was wanted. That he could be good for him again. But he did not come to ease the turmoil in Peter's self. He was alone. 

Despite the pain in his joints and muscles he curled up to a small ball and cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is very unsafe bdsm happening in form of rope bondage. Quentin gets angry and a sues Peter verbally and with slapping him. Peter has a huge sub-drop and cries alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for explicit violence in this one. 
> 
> Check out the amazing moodboard (see below) by the lovely Muse_of_Gods, made for the first two chapters! 🤯😭😍😘  
> Please give her some love on Tumblr!

Peter tried to hide the bruise under his hair while he served Quentin the drink. On the one hand Quentin liked that he bruised easily. On the other he had told him often enough how he would be kicked out when he wasn't considered cute anymore. Maybe it had just been his way of joking, but Peter could not be sure. 

He managed to keep the shaking of his hands to a minimum while he served the drink. Hopefully Beck would not order him to perform more intimately for the guest. Not that he ever had. But he threatened Peter with it more than once and what Peter knew by now was that with Quentin there was always a first time for everything.

The guest however, was even more scary than the man Peter belonged to. While Quentin openly enjoyed Peter's struggles as much as his pain, the man on the other couch had not even batted an eye. Completely emotionless, just as Quentin had told him. Peter had often enough heard the tales of Tony Stark, the man made of iron. Unemotional. Merciless. The mere thought of being at the mercy of such a man was terrifying. Quentin could be nasty, of course. But Peter had learned to navigate his moods most of the time. With someone who showed no mood at all? He shuddered. And Quentin deeply cared for him. That was… that was essential, Peter told himself. Even if he was sometimes unfair or maybe too harsh. He gave Peter what he needed, he often told him. 

Quentin took the drink and a smile played around his mouth. Peter dared to return it shyly. He saw that Quentin was now satisfied with the amount of pain he had caused. The rest of the night would be peaceful. Maybe he even let Peter sleep in his bed. Peter hoped so, his head started to hurt like hell. At first he thought that it was just the bruise on his cheek radiating into the skull. But now the whole head throbbed. 

_ Please, don't let it be broken. He will be so mad at me if my cheekbone is broken. I should have been more careful, how often did he tell me...  _

Peter hadn't even finished the thought when the chaos broke loose. 

It all went too fast. 

Something happened behind him. Quentin's face changed from shock to rage. Instinctively Peter pulled back, expecting a blow, but Quentin pulled out his gun. Peter gasped and then a strange sound made him close his eyes. Warm wetness sprayed over his face. The smell of iron. 

When he opened his eyes again Quentin was pushed back, the weapon useless in his hand. His crystal eyes were wide open and he drew breath in short gasps, red spreading on his chest. He turned to Peter, opening his mouth. Red poured out. 

Peter, frozen to the spot, was pushed back by a hand and then he saw the guest stepping forward. His gun pointed to Quentin's face and then... 

The shooting was dampened by a silencer. 

Peter felt like dropped into ice water. All was cold and moved slow around him. Quentin's upper head was gone, his eyes stared unbelieving until blood filled them. 

Stark grabbed Peter's shoulder, turned him around. All he could do was gape at him, not comprehending what had just happened. 

"... safe. Where is it?" The man's voice came from far away and Peter watched him, unable to grasp the meaning. More sounds came from anywhere, crashing of the door, steps from boots. 

A hand on his shoulder shook him, spread pain and made him focus. 

"Where is Beck's fucking  _ safe _ ?!" 

Peter pointed to a panel in the wall. He had seen Quentin using it many times. 

The man let go of him and Peter sank to the ground. 

Slowly he recognized what had happened. Panic engulfed HIM. His heart beat so fast he feared it would explode. 

Quentin was dead. 

Killed in cold blood. 

Peter looked around, terror rooting him to the spot. Other people came in, weapons drawn. He did not know them. 

One of them, a long haired guy in a combat suit marched over. Peter tried to get away but the man grabbed him. He cried out, his hands scratching over the fabric of the suit, a metal arm. He held his weapon to Peter's head. 

"Buck!" 

The man paused, looking up. Peter was no match for him, struggling in his one handed grip. His head hurt so much! 

"Don't kill him!"

"Gotta hurry!" 

"Tie him up. We take him with us." 

"You mad…?!" 

"Do it!" 

The man grunted. "Boss." Then he pulled Peter around effortlessly and tied his hands behind his back with a zip. Peter cried out in fear but the man shoved a piece of fabric into his mouth and fastened it with another around his head. 

Peter's temples throbbed, his skull was about to explode. He closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face while he was pulled up. 

Stark - who had killed Quentin, he was  _ dead _ ! - came over, the safe behind him a smoking hole in the wall. He held a bag and his gun. Peter got pulled up and dragged to the door. 

In the corner of his mind he recognized that the men were in a hurry. Quentin's -  _ dead, he is dead! _ \- men were not fully alarmed yet. The fast mansion appeared empty and like a ghost house 

They dragged him to a sideway where a door lead to the maintenance yard behind the pool. A black limousine waited there next to a small transporter. Peter got shoved into the back part of the limousine, crouching down on the floor. His head hurt so much he shivered all over. Stark and a huge blonde man in an expensive suit came in behind him. 

"Happy, go! But keep it down!"

A hand in Peter's neck made him stay down. As if he had attempted to fight with his massive headache and his hands bound behind his back. He swallowed the nausea that rose in him, the inside of the car swirling around him when they started to move. All he could do was kneel down and trying to breathe. 

Stark pulled out his phone, his gun still in his hand. The blonde guy, who held Peter down, looked around, checking the surrounding outside the car. When he turned to Stark his face was tight. 

"For fuck's sake! Why did you bring a hustler?" 

He got no answer, Stark just sat back and waited. 

Peter's breath was loud in the quiet car and he tried to fight his panic. 

_ 'Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me.'  _

He could not see where they were going or when they were leaving Quentin's estate. When the car sped up however the tension eased a bit on the backseat. Peter heard the men de-cock the weapons and felt a bit of the strain in himself ebb away. At least he was not to be shot immediately. But why did they take him in the first place? The thoughts swirled around in his fuzzy, pounding head. He knew nothing about Quentin's business and even if the man wasn't dead, Quen would not pay a single dollar to get Peter back.he was responsible for staying out of trouble himself.  _ 'Stay out of trouble or deal with it!'  _ had been something Quentin had made very clear. And then added to make his case clear  _ 'Cheap sluts like you are waiting on every corner.'  _

He tried to force the hurtful memory away and to listen to the quiet conversation behind him, but only bits and pieces made it through the headache and fear.

"Any problems?" 

"No. The janitor did his job, nothing to worry about."

"Everyone's out." 

"Yeah, I checked."

Apparently the mission was counted a success. Peter tried to fight the thought of the men behind him celebrating that with a shared round on the dead enemy's property. 

_ The hustler.  _

Blood rushed loud in his ears so that he couldn't follow the conversation anymore. 

Like this it was a shock when Stark gripped him on his arm to pull him close, draping him face down over the seat. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Peter struggled weakly but to no avail. Stark's hands had a strong grip and to keep the weakened boy in place was not a struggle. Peter was positioned face down on the backseat between them, still kneeling on the car's floor. 

_ 'No, please, no!'  _ he prayed but all that made it out of the gag was strangled muffles and whines. His uninjured cheek pressed into the leather seat and fresh tears dripped down onto it. 

Still he could not give up without a fight, desperately trying to wriggle free. The blonde man huffed in an annoyance and placed his hand on Peter's back too to still him. 

From the corner of his eye Peter saw the glistening of a blade. He cried against the gag in panic but the blond man held him down effortlessly, one hand in his neck and one between the shoulder blades. Stark leaned in, bringing the knife in position on Peter's lower back. 

_ 'NO!'  _

A hard pull on his wrists was followed by a sharp sound and then Peter's hands fell free. The grip on him was gone too. 

The boy, almost out of his mind, jerked back. It let another wave of dizziness and nausea surge through him. Peter gagged. Pressing himself against the opposite seat, panting hard, he watched the two men wide-eyed. 

"No need to freak out." Stark said and gave the knife back to his friend. His gaze was harsh. Peter wished the bottom would open to make him disappear. 

Tentatively he pulled the gag out of his mouth and when nobody commented on it he let it fall to the floor. Rubbing his wrists he managed to calm his ragged breath a little. 

Nothing more happened. Stark and his associate started their conversation again, having a look at the contents of the bag the man had gotten from Quentin's safe. 

Peter closed his eyes with a soundless sigh. All he could do now was waiting for what was going to happen to him anyway.

Peter lost any sense of time and space while they drove through the night. He had not tried to get on the seat behind his back, just stayed in the footwell where he had been put, curled up and resting his head on the leather. He tried to be as still as possible to not wake the anger of the men who sat opposite of him and to keep the heavy pounding in his head at bay. Maybe his consciousness had left him in between-times but he could not be sure.

Then the car stopped. The blonde man glared at Peter before he turned to his boss with a frown. When he received no reaction he let out an annoyed grunt and opened the car's door to get out first. 

Stark however did not follow him immediately. He regarded Peter for a few moments with his unreadable face. Peter pressed his mouth shut. 

_ 'I'm no trouble. Please don't kill me' _

The man sighed and his hand moved to his jacket where he had stored his gun. Peter ducked his head and shut his eyes with a quite whine. As if that could shield him from a bullet. 

"Com'on, get up." 

Peter blinked. His breath hitched in his throat when he looked up. The man had shed of his jacket, the gun still in its holder under the shoulder. With his help Peter got to a crouching position where the man draped the jacket over Peter's shoulders. It was warm from stark's body. Peter felt the silken inlay soft on his bare skin. The sensation was kind of startling because it was so unexpected to be given something to cover himself.

Confused and still on the edge Peter followed him out of the car, the jacket's scent engulfing him, the warmth a stark contrast to his bare feet on the concrete. 

Full of reluctancy Peter looked around. A underground car park. The driver, a burly man in a black suit, the blonde guy, Stark and himself were alone. From afar the transporter neared in a slow pace.

"Get him upstairs. Bruce is waiting." Stark said and pulled out his phone again. 

The blonde regarded him, a muscle twitching on his jaw, but then obeyed. He grabbed Peter's shoulder and shoved him to an nearby elevator.

Peter gasped when the movement let new pain flare up in his skull, but he knew how to hide it well enough to not further enrage the man. If he had learned one thing in his time with Quentin then it was to draw as little attention as possible. If that was going to help him in front of  _ Bruce _ however, was another cup of tea. All of this looked like he was going to be questioned and if all he could tell them was what Quentin had preferred for breakfast it would get ugly for sure. 

The elevator stopped in an luxurious penthouse. Peter only regarded it only from the corner of his eye, too much was his mind occupied with the dizziness and the dull throbbing, let alone his anxious thoughts on what would come next. 

The man he started to call  _ asshole _ in his mind shoved him forward. Peter stumbled to an open kitchen and dining area where a smaller, dark haired man waited. 

"Steve! Did everything go well? Where is Tony? And Buck?" 

"He's coming. Nobody's injured. He just wants you to check on the hustler."

The man's eyes returned to Peter, taking in the half naked figure that was only hidden by an expensive suit jacket.

"O-... Okay. Uhm. Can you-... can you come over here please?" 

With his help Peter sat down on the table. 

He was tired and hurt and slowly a strange kind of rest set in. If they wanted to fuck him they would already have. If they wanted to kill him they would not ask a doc to check on him. And this Bruce clearly was a doc with the way he made Peter move his head and all that jazz. 

He cleaned Peter's face and chest with white gauze and Peter tried to ignore the red stains that came off. Tried not to think about where they were coming from. 

"Where did you get that from?" Bruce cleaned the bruise on his cheek and put some salve on it before he taped it. 

"Fell and hit a table." Peter murmured. From the corner of his eye he saw Stark enter through the elevator. He and asshole -  _ Steve _ \- talked to each other quietly before the blonde man left, the bag under his arm. Stark came over. 

"Look here please." The doc lighted in Peter's eyes, one after another. He checked on some of the bruises that littered Peter's body. And other marks. 

Peter didn't care. 

"Status?" 

Bruce turned to Stark. "Concussion I'd say. Not too bad, but he needs to rest. The other bruises are not severe though. I'd recommend painkillers and sleep."

The man nodded, his face impassive. 

Peter longed to ask why he had taken him, what he planned to do with him. The jacket had been such a soft gesture that it ignited a glimmer of hope inside him. But he stayed quiet. Quentin had been soft too when Peter had earned it. And still, it had often ended in pain. 

"Okay, take these…" The doc handed Peter a few pills and a small cup of water. Peter took and swallowed them without question. Whatever they planned to do with him was out of his control anyway. 

"Get up." Stark ordered and Peter did, swaying a bit. The adrenaline had left his body and he felt tired, drained. With slow steps he followed the man through the penthouse to a door. Behind it was a room with a huge bed. A ensuite bathroom. On the bed a t-shirt. Peter tried to comprehend all this but his ability to think left him like water flowing through a drain. 

Under the watchful eye of the boss Peter slipped the shirt on and under the covers. The lamps were switched off and only the big city lights illuminated the room softly. 

Peter was asleep in minutes. 


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce packed his things and got ready to leave. 

His eyes fell on the jacket that still laid on the dinner table. It belonged to one of Tony's best suits and was definitely ruined. Blood and sweat had left dark stains on the fine fabric. 

With a frown Bruce looked over to the wall of windows where Tony stood, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, his tie loosened. The man gazed out into the nightlights, but Bruce was sure that it was not the city he saw. 

Tony swirled his drink in the crystal glass like he always did when he moved a thought around in his head. Bruce pondered for a moment if he should just leave him be and go back to his own apartment, but then the curiosity won. All of this was just so unusual for a man like Tony Stark. So he decided to go over to stand next to his friend. Bruce cleaned his throat, but got no response. 

"I gave him an tranquilizer. He will be asleep until the morning." That got him no reaction either. Bruce pressed his lips closed. Sometimes Tony was a pain in the ass. 

"If he still suffers a headache I recommend to make him stay in bed at least for a day. Call me when it gets worse."

This time the man next to him nodded. 

Bruce paused, then sighed. He took his bag in the other hand and turned to Tony who still looked out of the window.

"Who is he? Steve said he is a prostitute?" 

Tony shrugged. 

Maybe the boy knew things about the small but well-equipped group Quentin Beck had formed, Bruce mused. They were active in the department of human trafficking at last. But that did not address the elephant in the room, didn't it? He watched Tony's profile carefully. 

"Say… why did you bring him  _ here _ ?"

Tony did not answer again, but to be honest, Bruce had not expected him to. Still, he could not shake the feeling that there was more to it as it seemed. Tony never talked much about such things, despite him knowing Bruce for almost twenty years now. 

Bruce turned his head to look out of the window again, into the bustling city that never slept. It was quiet for some time.

"Some of those bruises were older. Like, I think he got beat up occasionally." 

Tony took a sip of his drink. His nod was barely visible, but Bruce was sure to have seen it. He inclined his head. 

"I think those two points on his shoulder stem from cigarettes that got stubbed out there."

This time Tony turned to him. His dark eyes unreadable, but Bruce felt a shiver creep up his spine. He swallowed. 

"You still wonder why I took him?"

Bruce lifted his eyebrows while he exhaled through his nose. "Maybe not. Or better, I know why  _ I  _ would have gotten him out there. But  _ you… _ It's not really your style, no?“

Tony smiled for a second. It was not a warm gesture. 

The two men looked out over the nightly city. Then Bruce shrugged, stifling a yawn. 

"Well. I'm off. You know where to find me if there's an emergency." he stepped back, walking over to the elevator. None of Tony's guys had been in need of medical attention, it was a quiet night. 

He already was by the elevator when Tony called his name. Bruce stopped and turned over his shoulder with his hand hovering over the touch screen.

Tony, still standing by the window, raised his glass in greeting. 

"I owe you one."

Bruce just shook his head with a smile and left the penthouse to ride down to his own apartment. 

-

Tony watched the city and thought about what had happened today. The extraction had proceeded as planned, no casualties. The cleaning lady he had bribed hid the weapon he had used on Beck and the janitor got the team in. It all hung from Beck's vanity, his urge to grab the opportunity to meet his former boss and to shove his success in Tony's face. Fortunately that had been enough to make Beck take risks that had costed him his life. Agreeing to meet in the not easily defendable country house in the first place, using personal that was corruptible, not search-through the room where the meeting was held. 

Tony drank. 

Beck had been nothing but a poser without true understanding how the game was played. The documents that could have meant jail for Tony were back where they belonged and Steve would get rid of them once and for all. 

Loyalty. That was, what all of this was about. Steve often questioned his desicions, but in the end he stood by his side, loyal. 

Quentin Beck had early on failed to understand the mere concept. Ruling by fear could bring one to the top. But to stay there, one needed people he could trust with his life. 

Tony's thoughts strayed to the boy in his guest room. Ruled by fear. Before he got him to bed he had looked as if he simply had no capacity left to be afraid anymore. As if all of it had been consumed by the events of the night. 

Bruce' words came to Tony's mind. 

Why had he brought the boy to his own home of all places. 

He smiled sarcastically to himself.

From the outside it was obvious, wasn't it? The few people who knew Tony's type could see it clearly. Slender, pale, with dark hair and eyes. Soft and innocent looking. It mattered not so much if man or woman as long as they had this bambi quality to them. And the boy was the role model for bambi. 

That was why Beck had decided to parade him around, Tony was sure. Because it was Tony's type and Beck had known it. 

But that wasn't the reason why Tony had taken him in. Not even the fact that the boy had been abused. If it was just pity, Tony could have given him to one of his trusted employees, Happy or Clint, to take care of him until he was healed up. And then set him free with new clothes and a couple of hundred bucks. But Tony had brought him here, to his own apartment. Steve thought him crazy to do so. In fact Tony knew nothing about the boy, not even his name yet. And still… 

He drained the glass, his eyes small. 

Then he shook his head on himself. There was plenty of time to think about this tomorrow. With that thought he instructed Jarvis to alarm him should his guest wake up and went to bed. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter from the past. See end notes for spoilers on content in this chapter. Stay safe <3

"Yeah, he looks a bit younger." 

Laughter rose among the group as if that had been a splendid joke. "He is way more mature though." Quentin said grinning, his hand on the small of Peter's back. 

Peter ducked his head shyly. Glasses full of champagne clicked together and the conversation went elsewhere. Peter let his eyes wander around. All that luxury almost blinded him. Who would have guessed that he would ever attend a party like this?! Of course, Peter felt a bit odd, out of place, but that was just the novelty of the situation he was sure. 

His gaze returned to the man next to him and a soft smile appeared on his face. 

Quentin had done so much for him. He had not only abated his aunts depths. He even had gifted him a suit that probably did cost more than May earned in a month! It was perfectly fitting, dark red with a tight turtleneck shirt in the same color underneath. 

"To hide the signs of my affection." Quentin had murmured through the dressing and touched the purple lines around the base of Peter's neck. 

Peter still felt sore from the play but Quentin had told him that it was totally safe. He swallowed, feeling the roughness of his throat against the fabric. Maybe Quentin could be coaxed to not use one of his ropes next time, but… something else? It felt as if the material had dug into his flesh far more than was healthy. 

Peter pushed the thought aside. He could not ask for such! And what was a bit of soreness compared to all Quentin was giving him? Even introducing him to people he knew. Peter smiled at him and his adoration was written all over his face. 

"Where's enough money…" Someone said. Peter looked around. Everybody smiled. Even laughed again. He had no idea what was so funny. 

"Come babe. I'll get you a drink."

Peter followed along, ignoring the stares and mocking eyebrows. Of course he was broke. And way younger. Not even legal yet. But Quentin and him… they  _ shared _ something, right? Like in a fairytale Quentin had discovered him and taken him in. Transformed him. 

Quentin's hand was on his shoulder or back all night. He made clear that Peter was  _ his _ and his alone. It didn't matter that the others looked down on him. They didn't  _ know _ . 

-

Peter watched Quentin secretly wash down a pill with champagne. It was one of the blue ones he was not allowed to ask about. He did not comment on it and pretended to have not seen it. His smile stayed on his face when he looked around the luxurious room. 

It was two almost months now that he lived with Quentin. Two months where his life had turned from a more or less normal, if poor, teenage existence into a fairytale. Quentin did not tire to tell him how lucky he was to have met him. That Quentin had fallen for the empty-handed boy, despite the depths his aunt had to pay. And Peter knew it was true. Quentin had everything. Could have everybody. Rich, powerful, smart and good looking like he was. And still he had turned to Peter like the prince to Cinderella. And shown him a complete new world. Especially between the sheets. 

Peter followed along, smiling and nodding when Quentin greeted somebody. He had no idea who these people were and what kind of party this was. But it was as Quentin often said. 

"You are young and clueless, babe. Don't worry your head for stuff you're not able to understand yet."

Like what was safe in bed and what not. 

-

"Follow me babe." 

Quentin led him to a bathroom. He locked the door behind him and pushed Peter forward to the sink. 

"All that champagne makes me horny, boy." Quentin purred, crowding Peter next to the urinal. Peter licked his lips. "Okay…" It was rare enough that Quentin wanted something like this from him. He had not prepared himself and felt nervousness creep up his spine. Slowly he lowered himself for a blowjob but Quentin held him back. 

"Not your mouth babe."

"But Quen-..." A slap shut him up.

"Don't argue with me Peter!" Quentin pulled him around and Peter was pressed against the wall. His face hit the tiles and he was thankful that he had not split his brow. Quentin worked his pants open and pulled them down over his ass.

"This piece of meat is mine to do with as I please!" A slap across his buttocks made that clear. 

"O-...okay, Quentin. I'm sorry."

He got no answer. Quentin spat on his hand and rubbed the wetness over Peter's hole. He tried to relax but it wasn't easy with the prospect of what was going to happen. It was very rare that Quentin took him. Mostly he was satisfied with tying him up and play with him until Peter came, half out of his mind with pain and pleasure. To thank him on his knees afterwards. Licking his boots or something that Peter tried not to think about too much. 

The few times he had bottomed for Quentin he had instructed him to clean and stretch in the shower first. And afterwards he had just bowed down and let Quentin do what he wanted. But now he was not cleaned and not stretched and still Quentin started to push in. 

Peter discovered during the last two month that in bed he liked flat, broad pain. Slapping, flogging, even a wooden paddle. But stinging pain was not his. And what Quentin did now was more than stinging!

_ 'Don't make a scene. Keep quiet!' _ Peter gritted his teeth against the burn. Try to unclench. To no avail. His hands slid over the tiles while he struggled to hold on. 

Fortunately, Quentin did not take long like this. He never did with the pill. He fucked into Peter, grunting obscene things that Peter tried to tone out. The growing noise in his ears helped in that.

Finally, Quentin was done. 

Peter pushed back from the wall a little, his head dizzy. Sweat ran down his back and there was wetness on his legs. 

"Better use some paper towels…" Quentin muttered, pushing some between Peter's buttocks. Peter tried not to think about it. 

When Peter followed him out Quentin seemed to be swollen with pride. He pulled him close again and Peter had the feeling that everybody knew what they had been doing. He tried his best to now show his pain, when he followed Quentin around. 

Smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin takes a pill to get hard and rapes Peter in the bathroom of a party. Peter bleeds and tries to hide it.


	7. Chapter 7

When Peter woke up, it was with a jolt. The memory of that night had been so vivid, as if it had happened yesterday. He tried to calm his quick breathing and to stay quiet. It was not due to wake Quentin up. 

Something had happened yesterday. He felt a pounding in his head that obviously had been a big headache, but now was reduced to a small humming. 

He blinked into the dimly lit room, not making out a single thing yet. 

Soft sheets, silken quality. Quentin had allowed that he slept in his bed then.

Sleeping next to Quentin was a treat and a privilege. Peter longed to earn it and not to be abandoned on the floor. When he had been good, Quentin stroked his hair and shoulder before sleeping, smiling down on him. It was tender and soft. Sometimes he told him stories of his way to the top. How he managed to free himself of Tony Stark and his mob. How he gathered his own men around himself and made them into a striking force. Peter loved to listen to him, to watch his crystal blue eyes sparkle with the tales of his accomplishments. 

Sometimes he wished he was able to share this with someone. With May or maybe with Ned. But he could not. Quentin had made it clear that Peter's old life was over. He belonged to him now. In exchange for the money May owed him. But now it was more than that, wasn't it? Quentin was his life now.

Peter’s cheekbone and a few other places hurt, but that was often the case. The memory of the dream still lingered. Why could he not stop thinking about it? After that occasion Quentin had never touched him in that way ever again. Peter wasn't sure which was the greater sting. The pain of being taken like this or the fact that Quentin did not desire him enough to do so again. 

Peter laid in the dusky warmth and waited for his head to clear. It was quiet, apparently Quentin was still sleeping. 

Peter swallowed. His mouth was uncharacteristically dry. Something felt wrong. He blinked and the ceiling slowly became more clear. It was unfamiliar. 

Where was he? What had happened the other night? Why was he wearing a t-shirt? 

Slowly Peter sat up. His cheek was taped over. He was alone in bed and the room unfamiliar. 

Peter's eyes darted around, his breath quickened. What was going on?! 

_'Strange sounds from a gun, like small arrows. Blood. Pain. Quentin's eyes staring at him in surprise, red washing over them'_

Peter gasped, his hands covering his mouth when the memories rushed in. All of it was hazy and disoriented, how he left the mansion, the ride in the car, dark eyes on him, unreadable and cold. 

He pulled his knees up to his chest and made himself small in the huge bed. They had killed Quentin. 

His eyes searched the room for a clue what was going on. He remembered a doctor but all was fuzzy and hazy. 

Why had they taken him? Why had they seen to his injuries?! It made no sense! 

He _knew_ nothing. 

He _was_ nothing. 

_'Just a cheap slut.'_

Panicking breaths made Peter see stars. He had to calm down or he would faint again. 

With effort Peter managed to slow his breathing, gripping his arms tight to stop his hands from trembling. 

A knock came from the door. 

Peter startled and held his breath. 

After a few moments of silence man, wearing some kind of servants uniform, stepped in. His grey hair was neatly trimmed and the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes curled into a smile. 

"Good morning, sir." he announced while he walked over to the windows. He held himself with grace and dignity. No simple servant then. "My name is Jarvis, I'm Mr. Stark's butler." He said as if he was able to read Peter's mind. While he talked he pulled back the curtains to let more of the morning sun in. "Please let me know if I can be of service."

Peter looked at him, still trying to get his initial panic under control. He pulled the sheet up, as if he could hide behind it. 

Jarvis turned to him and worry appeared on his face. 

"I apologize for startling you."

Peter stared at him

"It's okay…" he let out eventually. 

Jarvis nodded in thanks. "However, as I said, it is my duty to assist you as long as you are a guest in Mr. Stark's home. Please try to calm down. You are not in eminent danger."

 _'Eminent…'_ Peter stored that information away. 

"Where is… Mr. Stark? Did he say why-... why he brought me here?"

"I am afraid not. He only instructed me to welcome you as soon as you wake up and to see to your needs."

Peter nodded. He thought for a moment. 

"What shall I do?" 

"I suggest taking a shower and then proceed to breakfast."

Peter nodded thankfully. It was easier to function when somebody told him what to do. Slowly he got out of bed to not risk nausea with his head all fuzzy and the edges blurred. Despite those unpleasant sensations he felt relatively steady. Peter followed Jarvis to the bathroom where everything was set up for a guest. 

Peter stopped in the doorframe and eyed the marble sink, the shower cabin with various setting, the huge tub and all the other luxuries. The bath was as lavish as Quentin's personal one had been. If this was a guest room, how was the master bedroom looking?! 

Peter decided to not follow that train of thought, since he hoped to not end up there. To become the personal plaything of the _Iron Man_ was not what he wished for. 

He focused on the various possibilities to let water rain down on him and started to shower, the warm water defying the cold shiver on his back. 

-

When Peter stepped out of the bathroom, his hair still damp, he spotted a new shirt and an oversized pair of sweats waiting on the bed. Probably the butler had left these for him. It was a little unsettling to wear something that obviously belonged to somebody else since both items were way to big in his small frame. Also he had nothing to wear underneath, but he didn't have much choices. 

When he left the guest room however, Peter stopped dead when he saw that he wasn't alone with Jarvis in the apartment. 

Tony Stark was standing by the dining table, a pad in one hand and a steaming cup in the other. He was focused on the screen, reading. The scent of coffee wafted over. 

Peter regarded his appearance, dress pants and white shirt, but casual with the waistcoat opened and the sleeves rolled up. The absence of an jacket reminded him of the night before when Stark had helped him out of the car. 

Peter swallowed his anxiety and set one foot in front of the other. He did not greet the man - talking to Quentin without being asked had often resulted in a slap - but he eyed Stark carefully. 

When he arrived at the table the man turned to him. He looked him up and down. 

"How's the head?" 

Peter ducked the part in question. 

"Thank you. It's okay." he came to an halt by the table.

"Coffee?" 

Peter nodded. 

Someone had placed two plates, pastries and juice on the table, but Stark's place was unused. 

"Help yourself. I'm busy, we'll talk later. Bruce said you need to rest more anyway."

Peter nodded again and sat down by the table tentatively. The butler came over from the kitchen and poured him some coffee. Peter tried to feel his way into the situation, but Stark was unreadable. Was he allowed to eat? With Quentin it had been a major point of control if, when, and what Peter was allowed to eat. He eyed the baked goods varily, folding his hands in his lap. 

"If this is not to your taste I can order something else" Jarvis offered. Stark, who had walked a few steps, turned around at that, his face inquisitive. 

Peter grabbed the first pastry and put it on his plate. "No. Thank you. This is fine." He tried to raise as less attention as possible when he ripped off a piece and shoved it into his mouth. To his utter relief Stark turned to his pad again and walked over to the kitchen counter. There he placed his cup and focused on what he read. 

Peter chewed the bite and looked around without lifting his head. They were alone, except for the butler who went back to the kitchen. Obviously Stark was not a person for breakfast since he only had coffee. Peter watched him, slowly munching away his food and drinking the black coffee. There was cream on the table but he couldn't muster the nerve to use it. Still, slowly the tension left him a little. He chewed slowly, focusing on the sensation of the taste, the sweet and salty bits, the buttery crust. The last time Peter ate had been dinner with Quentin, but there he had gotten not very much. Quentin liked it when Peter was not so full in the evening. 

_Had_. Had liked it. 

Peter pushed the memories away. All of it felt strangely distant, as if the close proximity to Stark pushed everything to the back. His gaze found the man again. He wanted to ask so bad why he was here, what was expected of him, what he had to expect. But the man was reading and Peter would have bitten off his tongue before he disturbed him in that. So he waited and ate and drank what he was given. 

Time would tell what kind of rules applied here. 


	8. Chapter 8

"Sir, Dr. Banner is on his way up. He says he has some time before his first appointment and wants to check on the patient."

Stark looked up, irritated. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Okay, let him in." Then he turned. 

"Hey, you-... what's your name?" 

"It's-... it's Peter, sir! Peter, uhm, Parker…" 

"Peter huh. Well. The doc is going to check on you. Cooperate."

"Yes sir." Peter gave back, his back straight as a rod. 

Mr. Stark nodded and walked over to the living room where he continued reading. Peter watched him, on the edge.

-

Dr. Banner took Peter to the guest room and made him sit on the bed. "So, how did it go this morning? Nausea? Headache?" he asked while he checked Peter's pulse. 

"No sir. Only a little."

"That's good. Follow my finger. Very well." Banner untaped the bruise and checked on the swelling. With the salve it had reduced a bit but a broad, violet stain adorned Peter's cheekbone. Banner did not comment on it, just applied a bit more salve and the ran a few tests Peter remembered from his childhood. Blood pressure, breathing, hearing. How that was related to a concussion he didn't know but complied anyway. 

"Seems you're fine, except from a few scratches and the fading head damage." he paused, putting his working utensils away, before he said in passing. "How old are you anyway?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"No need for the 'sir'. You can call me Bruce or Doctor Banner, whatever you prefer." Banner smiled but there was something in it that made him look like he had an aching tooth or something. 

"Seventeen… that's young to be associated with the mob."

Peter said nothing to that, just watched the doctor. Banner sighed and busied himself with his equipment. "We're almost done. Can I have a blood sample? I want to check how you do under the surface."

Peter eyed the syringe. "Okay." He extended his arm. Else they would made him, he was sure. 

Banner took the sample, and while he did he tried to distract Peter from the sting with talking about the changing weather. 

_ 'Cute' _ Peter thought. As if that was something to worry about. But Peter filed it away for later. The doctor seemed to be very compassionate and acting as such. He would not react well if Peter was tortured. Hopefully. 

"You're a bit on the lower side in the nutrition department. I suggest you take in a few more calories."

That too Peter left uncommented. It was not up to him how much and what he was going to eat. 

"Okay. Any questions? No? Well. I suggest you stay in bed and try to sleep. At least until there is no pain and nausea left. I'll leave you a few painkillers, just in case."

The doc placed two pills on the nightstand. He waited until Peter had slipped under the covers before he grabbed his bag and headed to the door. Banner stopped there, his hand on the frame. He seemed that he wanted to say something, but then he simply nodded with a shy smile and left. 

Peter watched the door. He waited a few minutes. When nothing happened, he turned to his side and closed his eyes. 

-

Bruce walked into the living room, carding a hand through his tousled hair. He took a cup of coffee from Jarvis with a thankful nod before he stepped up to Tony. The butler left to give them some privacy, but Tony continued his reading. 

Bruce, unimpressed by his show of detachment drank a bit of coffee. 

"He's seventeen."

To Bruce' surprise Tony turned to him with grim determination. 

"I know. Orphaned at seven. Lived with his aunt. Got into trouble with Quentin's mob because of medical bills." He paused, scrolling down. "The boy disappeared about eight months ago."

Bruce' eyebrow rose and he turned to Tony in a slow motion. He peered at Tony's pad where he saw the available police files opened and some info from Nat. 

"You got that info pretty fast, huh?" 

Tony - of course - did not answer. 

Bruce sipped his coffee, thinking on the amount of interest Tony showed here. 

"I ran a few tests. His health isn't too bad, aside from being too thin and too nervous. No drugs, as far as I can tell by now. The blood sample will show more."

This time Tony turned to him with an raised eyebrow. 

"What?" Bruce gave back. "You think you're the only one who wants to know more about him?" 

They regarded each other for a few moments. Then it was Tony who looked away with a grin. 

"I guess not."

Bruce changed his weight from one foot to the other. "So. What are you going to to with him? Keeping him like a stray cat?"

Tony shrugged, his face serious now.

"I don't know. Depends on him I suppose."

Bruce pressed his lips closed. It had been long that Tony got involved with somebody, except for a single night. This was… unusual. 

"Just… take care, okay?" 

Tony just raised his eyebrow. 

-

Peter rested as he was told. In fact he waited for the night to fall, where he would need all the strength he could muster until then. Peter hadn't seen any cameras in the room while the doc had checked on him but with the dark it would be easier to sneak away. 

He waited. 

Around dinner time, Jarvis knocked on his door, but Peter pretended to be asleep. The butler returned a few moments later and placed a plate with a sandwich on Peter's bedside table. Before he left he closed the curtains a bit. Only a small part of the window let light in in. 

Perfect. 

After midnight Peter slipped out of bed. His head felt good and despite the rumbling stomach he left the food where it was. If it was drugged he would not make it very far. 

On quiet feet he moved to the door and pressed down on the handle. No sound was to be heard. 

Of course it was insane to flee with nothing more on than a t-shirt and sweats but he had no choice. All of this was too strange, the behaviour of the people here too unpredictable. He had to give it a shot. Maybe he could reach May and then… it didn't matter.the feeling in the back of his neck grew stronger. The feeling that got him into trouble again and again when he had been younger. Outburst of recklessness. All he knew was that he had to get away. 

Peter sneaked into the living area and looked around. It was dark and the city lights the only brightness in the room. For a moment he pondered if he should look for money but he discarded the thought immediately. Better not getting caught with stolen goods. Better not getting caught at all! 

As quiet as possible he made it to the elevator, his heart beating fast. 

A touchpad! Peter cursed silently. He pressed his hand to it but nothing happened. He looked around, his panic growing. There must be a fire escape somewhere! Anything! 

"It's behind a panel, to the left."

Peter swirled around, pressing himself against the cold metal of the elevator's doors. His eyes darted around. At first he could see nothing, the room appearing as empty as a minute before. But then a movement caught his attention by the couch. 

It was Tony Stark. 

He sat there in a dark grey suit in the shadow. What had alerted Peter's eye - way too late - was the reflexion of light on a glass in his hand. The man took a sip, undisturbed.

"You can leave if you want." 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the last chapter for now. I think about writing a second part where Peter lives with Tony.

Placing the drink on the table with a small click, Stark looked at Peter, his face as unreadable as ever. He lounged on the couch, his legs crossed casually, as if he was just enjoying a glass of single malt after a long day. Not catching a kidnapped boy toy on the flight. 

Peter frowned, still pressing his back against the door. Stark acted way too cool, as if he had expected him trying to flee. Was this some kind of sick game? 

From the corner of his eye he searched for the panel the man had mentioned. If there  _ was _ a fire staircase he could not see it. 

"You are not a prisoner." Stark got up from the seat. "However, in case you want to leave my hospitality, you should know that Beck's men are looking for you." He strolled over in a slow pace, one hand in the pocket of his pants. Peter's eyes caught the movement.  _ 'Is that a weapon?' _

His gaze darted between the advancing man and possible escape routes back and forth. But he knew in his bones that he could not escape. Maybe it was part of the game to make him feel like he could, but if so, it only served Stark's entertainment. There was no way out for the likes of him. He was prey and if he ran he was going to be hunted. 

Stark continued, unaffected of Peter's panicked thoughts. "Apparently, the fact that you disappeared the night of Beck's passing made you a target." 

Peter felt cold when the words he heard found a way through the dizziness the fright caused. 

"What…?" he asked weakly. 

"There's a ransom on your head. Quite unfortunate. Not what I intended when I brought you here. A lot of people are looking for you right now…" 

Stark was close now, very close. He stood right before Peter and when the boy inhaled he smelled the same aftershave he had when Stark had given him the jacket. Peter looked up to him and he could not keep the trembling at bay. He was caught already. Even if he ran, he had nowhere to go. With bringing him here, Stark's trap had closed. He was even more at the man's mercy as he had been at Quentin's! 

Stark was like a rock, his face impassive. He filled Peter's future like certitude. A hand came up, fingertips touching Peter's cheek right under the bruise. He closed his eyes with a shuddering breath.

"How long have you been with Beck?" 

Peter opened his eyes again. Stark still showed no reaction, nothing to gauge where he was going with this. 

"About… eight months. I think."

Stark paused. A frown appeared on his forehead. Peter watched him, his heart beating fast in his chest. It felt like a frightened bird, fluttering in a cage. Memories flooded him. Memories of things Quentin promised him. Of what he did to him. How he threatened Peter, bribed him, engulfed him more and more. Until all he did and was, his whole self, was focusing on how to avoid Quentin's anger and win his favor. 

"How did you end up with him?" 

"What do you even care?!" Peter slapped the hand away that still caressed his cheek. Then he recognized what he had done, cold fear hit him like a wave. He ducked his head, readying himself for the blow that must follow in the wake of such subordinate behaviour. 

But no slap came, nor a kick in his stomach. He looked up again, his lips trembling. Stark still regarded him coolly. 

"I  _ care _ because he shoved into my face how much he was able to abuse you without you even batting an eye." 

Peter shrunk into himself. Shame rushed through him. Somewhere on the way he had stopped thinking on how pathetic he was. How weak and beat down. It just had been his life. But then… then Stark came and everything went to hell. And now it stood before, glaring in his face. 

_ Cheap slut. Pathetic little hustler.  _

"It's… it's not like that…" he whispered, his gaze fixed on the lower buttons of Stark's shirt. His heart pounded loudly in his ears. 

"Not like what?" 

"He did not abuse me. Those… those were games. I-... I enjoyed…" Peter's airway closed. He could not draw breath. It felt like he was drowning in all those memories and all those emotions he had suppressed while he tried to convince himself that all of this was…  _ what _ ? 

Stark inclined his head a little, his eyes on the shivering boy in front of him. 

"You do know that he killed his boy toys when he was done with them right?" 

A tear rolled down Peter's face. He had no idea where they were coming from, he had not cried for so long, even when he felt like he was ripped apart. 

But this was different. 

It was as if Stark had ripped open a wound that Peter hadn't even known was there. All the pressure and humiliation and the fear, it just poured out, in front of the man. Even if Peter feared him as much as he had feared Quentin, he could not hold back and he couldn't stop the sobs that tore out of him and made his body shake. 

And Stark of all people, held him by his shoulder with a strong and warm hand, and let him cry. It wasn't a hug, it wasn't the comforting gesture one might expect in such a situation. But it grounded Peter enough to let go and cry like he hadn't for months. 

Maybe never. 

He cried like a little boy who had scraped both knees, who had never before experienced such pain. And Stark let him wail, standing in front of him like a rock, unshakable. 

Just when no tear was left in him, Peter looked up. 

Stark, his face impassive as ever, handed him a handkerchief to clean his snooty nose and wet face. 

Peter did. Then he looked up again, his eyes red and his chest empty. 

"What… what is going to happen now?" he whispered. He needed something to fill this emptyness. This hollowness that was about to swallow him whole. But Stark only looked down on him with this calm. That for the first time Peter recognized as such. Not cold, not detached and unemotional. 

Calm. And confident.

There was a certainty in his black eyes that Peter felt drawn to like a moth to a flame. 

"That is up to you."

-

Stark brought Peter back to bed and Peter followed him like a puppy. He crawled under the sheets, pulling the blanket up to his chin. The man looked down on him with his dark, unreadable eyes. There was a strange kind of reassurance in them. 

"You're with me now."

Peter watched him leave. The light switched off and left Peter in the dimm brightness from the nightly city. 

Now he saw it clearly. It was inevitable. 

He was Stark's now.

_ End part one _

  
  



End file.
